


Me in You

by glacis



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a mad season in LA as Lindsey comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me in You

Me in You, set post-"Dead End."

_Breathing room_

_I think I've already lost you_

He'd forgotten how red the dirt was. How damned dusty the air was. How wide the sky, and how empty the earth.

Lindsey shifted in his seat, calming the horse with a twitch on the reins and a shift of his knees. He got a snort and a head-toss for his trouble, but the mare settled down. The fences were all mended, and work was done for the day, but he found he didn't particularly want to go back to his sterile little room at the back of the ranch house. He'd left LA to find himself again. So now he had.

Hadn't realized how damned boring he could be.

He grinned at the thought and clucked at the horse, pressing in with his right knee and encouraging her to a slow walk. It was more than that, and he knew it. He'd lived like a monk in the five months since he'd left his old life behind, and contrary to his expectations, nobody'd come after him. Maybe it was Lilah, watching his back for a change instead of aiming a knife for it. Maybe the Firm just didn't think a cowboy in the middle of West Texas was any real threat.

Maybe that was going to change. The location, not the threat. He had no desire to take it to the Firm. He felt a little like a rattler. Leave it alone and it left well enough alone. But he was getting sick and tired of _being_ alone.

He stared sightlessly at a magnificent sunset, and remembered Angel. Funny how, with everything that had happened to him in Los Angeles, the only memory that came back clearly and often was that blessed vampire. The only thing he missed was the one thing he never thought he'd ever miss. The one thing he knew for damned sure he'd never have.

Oddly enough, he hadn't been the least afraid when he'd shot up Nathan Reed's office and flat-out dared Wolfram and Hart to come after him. Now, months of quiet solitude and bone-jarring hard work later, he was finally a little scared. Because he wasn't as strong as he'd thought he was, and he wasn't as weak as Angel had believed him to be.

He'd thought he was walking away from an empire. As it turned out, he was walking away from the soul he'd been trying to save. If he'd even thought that far, beyond escape and exhaustion.

_I think you're already gone._

A suspicion had been born the night he left, when Angel left his sophomoric little poster on the tailgate of Lindsey's truck. One crusty highway patrol officer later, Lindsey'd removed it, but it had made him laugh, as he had the feeling Angel had intended. For enemies, they made decent allies. From the first time he'd approached Angel, with all their sniping, they'd worked well together. Their last raid had been a success.

The memory of the light dying in Brad's eyes still hit him when he least expected it.

But that wasn't what scared him. What scared him was the fact that he was thinking again, and his thoughts were leading him to an inescapable conclusion.

It was time to go home. Not to his roots; the wide open west hadn't been home in so long he felt like a tourist even when he looked like the Marlboro man. There was a lot of land to rove on the West Texas plains. A lot of quiet to think in, and a lot of room to breathe.

He was suffocating.

Thought he could leave it all behind. He hadn't realized that he carried it with him. Within him. Angel had challenged and pissed him off since the moment they'd met, and the feeling had been mutual. Because they'd recognized one another.

In themselves.

There was an awful lot of Angel in Lindsey, or more aptly a lot of Liam who had become Angel. And there was something of Lindsey in Angel, too, or he wouldn't have kept coming back. At least, that's what Lindsey told himself, when he woke in the middle of the night with semen on his belly, Brad's hand wrapped around his dick, and Angel's name caught in his throat.

For an undead son of a bitch who'd been his worst enemy, Angel was proving impossible to get over. Without the sharp edge of his presence, Lindsey felt sluggish and dull. From the way Angel's eyes had sparked at him, in unexpected humor and anger that fired the blood, Lindsey had a notion Angel needed him more than hated him.

Wasn't sure, in fact, that Angel hated him at all. He had an inkling the need was real, though.

He snapped the reins lightly against the mare's neck and she broke into a trot, shaking some of the dust from him. The motion brought a slight wind that felt good against his skin, drying the sweat from a day of pounding fence posts. A lot of the resentment Lindsey'd carried since LA had sweated away over the weeks, but a little of it remained, itching under the surface.

The way Angel had given Faith a second chance, after she'd kidnapped and tortured Wesley, yet never gave Lindsey even the ghost of a chance. Sliced off his hand when he could easily have knocked Lindsey away from the flame and saved the scroll without maiming him. Angel never listened, never gave him any credit when he tried to change, watched like a hawk for him to fail then beat him to a pulp over it. Was it any surprise that Lindsey had gone back to the Firm?

The memories made him tense, hardening his hands on the reins, and the horse nickered protest at him. "Sorry, girl," he murmured, relaxing back into the rhythm of her gait. Lindsey had known too much, from the beginning, and Angel hadn't liked that. Hadn't been able to deal with it. He could deal with a rogue slayer acting like a one-woman hit squad, but he couldn't handle the all-too-human lawyer who'd hired her.

Not that Lindsey could, either, any longer. Since he'd been out of the pressure cooker, hell, since he'd gotten involved in the Brewer case, the emotional numbness that had sustained him since childhood had begun to fade. Long-unused emotions had prickled like damaged nerves coming out from under anesthesia, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience. No damned wonder he'd been such a basketcase by the time he'd finally run.

Didn't matter now. He'd stopped running and started paying attention to his instincts; other than his survival instinct, he hadn't listened to them in too long. And they were telling him to go back.

To try.

Scared the shit out of him, but he was going to return to LA and this time, he wasn't going to talk. He was going to listen.

And hope like hell Angel would talk to him.

 _Madness_

_you don't know me now -- I kinda thought that you should somehow_

The plan had been to go by Caritas, say hey to Lorne, sing a song, find Angel, get in his face, or his pants. It was a flexible plan.

He tossed it out the window as soon as he cleared the city limits, and drove directly to Angel Investigations. Few of the lights were on. Few of the people were home.

"Hi, evil lawyer singing guy," Cordelia greeted him listlessly. Lindsey stared at her, pausing just over the threshold. She looked ... lost.

"I guess it's better than born-again boy. Are you okay?"

She shrugged a shoulder, staring down at the counter, tracing circles on the wood. "Why do you care?" Before he could think up an answer, because he didn't know himself why he'd asked, she glanced up at him. "What do you want? Trust me. Not a good time to pick a fight."

"Not here to fight." Here to fuck, but he didn't tell her that. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. "Bad vision?"

"Bad times," she said so softly he had to come further into the room to hear the words. Her eyes dropped back to her compulsively drawing fingertip.

He glanced around. The lobby was so empty it echoed. "Where is everybody?"

"Out. Working a case. Except Angel," she told the counter. "He's upstairs."

"Can I help?" Again with the impulses coming from nowhere. Her other shoulder shrugged.

"No," she told him bluntly. "Nobody can."

"Can I try?" He'd made his slow way to the counter now, and leaned an elbow against it. Her head came up and she looked searchingly at him.

"Might as well." Another shrug, and she gathered her purse, stepping around the counter and pointing with her chin over her shoulder. "He won't listen to any of us. Maybe consorting with the enemy will break through. I'm willing to try anything."

"I'm anything?" It should have been funny, but it felt tragic. Her eyes looked through him.

"Better than nothing." Her gaze hardened. "Hurt him and I'll kill you."

He believed her.

"I'm going home now. He told me to go two hours ago. I guess ..." her voice trailed off and she shrugged a final time, as helplessly as before. She walked out the front door, glancing once at him over her shoulder. He read her warning without having to hear it. Something bad had happened, bad enough to send the gang into depression and turn the vampire into a hermit. As she disappeared down the sidewalk, it dawned on him, too late, to ask who'd died.

It was easy to tell which room was Angel's. It was the only open door on the third floor, and the only one with a light on inside. Good thing, too, because there was no sound, no movement. Lindsey stepped up to the doorway and peered inside.

"Go 'way."

Drunk. Impressive. Considering the speed and strength of a master vampire's metabolism, it took enough whisky to cause fatal alcohol poisoning in a human to get him drunk. Lindsey stepped carefully over the bottles, intact and in pieces, scattered all over the floor.

Angel was slumped in a chair, looking out the window. Lindsey wondered if he'd have enough brain cells left undead to remember to pull the shades in the morning, or if he'd let himself sit there and become a torch. Silently, he walked slowly over to the hassock Angel wasn't using and perched on the corner. Angel continued to stare out the window.

Twenty patient minutes later, Angel said quietly, "I'm a bloody idiot."

Not having any idea what he was talking about, and willing to wait for further information before passing judgment in this instance, Lindsey sat and listened. A few minutes passed before any more words were forthcoming.

"I thought I knew what the order of things'd be. After she came here, it didn't work out, she went home, we didn't talk so much. Then Faith ... happened, and 'twas even less. Her mum passed on, and I went to her, and I held her, but we didn't really say a lot. Now ... don't know what to say now. Too late to say anything. She's gone, and I'm lost. Whatever there was inside me, fighting the ugliness, 's gone and never coming back."

Lindsey caught his breath. Buffy. It had to be the Slayer. Something must have happened to her. He shifted closer, unsure where the urge to comfort came from. Probably a holdover from his childhood. Angel seemed somehow broken, hopeless in a way he'd never seemed before. Younger than he could possibly be, as fragile as a child in a man's body, and Lindsey had never been able to ignore a child in pain.

"Why're you here, Lindsey?" Angel was slurring, but not as badly as before, already sobering up.

"You need me," he answered. Angel finally looked at him. Then laughed, a bitter, loudly mocking sound that hurt more than it should. Lindsey waited until the mild fit of hysteria was over, then continued firmly, "and I need you."

"Ye're outta yer fuckin' mind."

He didn't bother answering that one. He simply sat, and watched, and waited. Angel stared at him for a moment more, then went back to staring out the window.

"I think I get it, now," Lindsey said into the silence when it had gone on as long as he could stand it. "It confused me -- you confused me -- for a long time."

"Tha's no' hard."

Taking the interruption for the rote protest it was, Lindsey plowed on. "The insults, the punches, the threats." He took a deep breath. "Foreplay."

Angel was out of the chair and had knocked him to the ground before his mouth closed over the word. Lindsey lay back on the carpet, trying to catch his breath where the wind had been knocked from him, and stared at the fully-vamped-out Angel staring viciously down at him.

"You stupid son of a bitch. What the hell would I want with you when I've had everything I ever wanted?" And lost it. He didn't have to add that part. Lindsey knew already.

"Because you can want me and not love me." He was still gasping a little, but he managed to get it out clearly enough to cut through the haze of anger and pain clouding Angel's mind. Slowly, the ridged features smoothed out and the fangs retracted.

"It's crazy right now," he continued softly. Angel backed off far enough to lower himself to the hassock, watching without helping or interfering as Lindsey sat up, folding his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, cupping his chin on his hands and looking up from his seat on the floor into Angel's face. "No one can help you with what you're going through. But I can help you ... not think for a little while."

"Why would you want to?"

Lindsey licked his lips. At least Angel hadn't punched him or tossed him out the window. Yet. "Because we both want it. And right now, I think you need it." Angel started to growl, and Lindsey said quickly, "I know I do."

Angel didn't bother answering. He simply moved from the hassock to Lindsey, knocking him flat again. His hands slid under the hem of Lindsey's tee shirt, ripping it to the neck with one yank before pushing it, along with his jacket, down off his arms. Lindsey thought of protesting, for a whole two seconds, until Angel's hands pulled the buttons of his jeans apart and shucked them down his hips with an ease bespeaking long practice. They tangled around his boots, but that didn't stop Angel.

Didn't even slow him down.

Lindsey's hands clutched at Angel's shoulders, trying to get a grip on his shirt, but they slipped on the heavy silk. He made a frustrated noise deep in his throat, and Angel responded impatiently, tearing the shirt off, buttons pinging away all over the carpet. Lindsey let Angel get on with the shirt and concentrated on the trousers. The zipper was a challenge, since Angel was already erect, and was big with it. His fingers brushed hard against cool flesh straining behind white satin, and Angel hissed warning. "Softly," he growled.

"Far from it," Lindsey told him. Instead of the grin he half-expected, Angel growled again. Then he batted Lindsey's hands away and stripped himself, pinning Lindsey to the floor with his body weight as he squirmed out of his clothes. The pressure felt better than anything Lindsey had felt in so long he couldn't remember. Not thinking, getting lost in the feel of soft skin and tensed muscle lying over him, he hooked an arm around Angel's neck and drew himself up to kiss him.

Angel backhanded him.

The shock of the blow, knuckles across jaw reverberating through skull against floor, stunned Lindsey. Angel's face had vamped out again, and he was growling with every unnecessary exhalation. Lindsey opened his mouth to ask what was going on, and Angel moved away just far enough to flip him onto his stomach.

For the first time since he'd met Angel, Lindsey was afraid of him. This wasn't the being he knew. Angel in pain was closer to Angelus than at any other time, given that he wouldn't allow himself to love. It was a lesson Lindsey should have learned with Darla, and had forgotten. If he could cut off his family of friends and torch his sire and his childe when he was in pain, why the fuck wouldn't he rape and murder one insignificant ex-lawyer who'd proven to be an enemy more than once?

No reason. No reason at all.

Lindsey tensed at the first touch, but it didn't hurt. It wasn't Angel's cock, or his fist, or even his fingers. It was his tongue. The cool length of it, slipping into his body, slicking and opening him, nearly made him come, which surprised him, because he hadn't been thinking about his erection when he'd been fearing for his life, but he hadn't lost it as he expected. That said something about himself he wasn't ready to hear, so he concentrated on what was being done to him instead of how his body was reacting to the situation.

The preparation wasn't gentle, but it was prolonged, and if Lindsey had been able to stop moaning long enough to ask, he'd've wondered why Angel didn't just push his way in. Then Angel _was_ pushing his way in, and he wasn't expecting it, and it hurt like hell, but he could handle it. Angel was lying along his back, and Lindsey couldn't breathe, but he didn't really need to, because every time he tried to draw a breath Angel thrust hard and he lost it again.

He was panting and the room was going around in circles. His chest hurt, his chin hurt, and he was getting carpet-burn on his cheek. Angel's hand was hard and knowing on his cock, and he was shuddering and keening through clenched teeth. His head felt like it was going to explode, but his body did before his mind caught up.

Orgasm hurt, was a relief and a burden, as Angel fucked him through it and kept fucking and stroking and pressing on top him until everything went blurry. His eyes closed and his body shook, his fingers dug into the carpet and tears on his face squeezed out through his lashes. He barely hung on to consciousness when Angel grunted and pushed into him, finally coming, finally easing up. There was the whisper of movement against the side of his neck, and Lindsey thought, at last, a kiss, of a sort, of any sort.

Angel bit him.

The sharp bright pain of the bite itself and the sucking sounds accompanying the pulling from the juncture of neck and shoulder all the way to the hinge of his jaw told Lindsey that he wasn't going to live through this. He was more resigned than he expected to be, given the survival instinct he'd always prided himself on, at the probability of death. Then blurry became dark, and the last thought he had as the world went away was that it wasn't supposed to end like that.

_I've been changin' - think it's funny how no one knows_

"Look what the cat dragged in."

The voice was too close, too loud. Lindsey flinched, hands coming up to shield his face. His entire body hurt, but the worst pains were in his neck, his knees, his jaw, the small of his back, and his ass. He didn't know dead people felt pain. He wondered for a split second if Angel had turned him, then opened his eyes to look directly into sunlight pouring through the windows of the hotel lobby. A shadow moved between his sun-dazzled, and therefore non-vampiric, eyes and the blinding window.

Gunn.

A second shadow joined him. "I thought you'd left town." Wesley.

"He came back last night," a sour voice joined the chorus. "Angel must've kicked him out but he only went as far as the couch before he crashed."

"Crashed is right," Gunn chimed in, leaning against the arm of the sofa and managing to look threatening without doing anything overt, a talent both innate and studied. "Looks like he went backward through the bushes a few times. Dragged by somethin' big'n'ugly."

Lindsey blinked up at him. Swallowed and tried to get his mouth moist enough to say something. Gave up on the effort when the three of them went right on talking around him. He tuned out and tried to figure out what the hell had happened.

Point one : he wasn't dead. Point two : he wasn't a undead, either. Point three : nobody seemed to know that Angel and he'd had sex the previous night. Point four : it was time to get the hell out of there and regroup. Because of point three. Partly point two. And most surprisingly, point one.

Ignoring the demands for explanation from Wesley, for information from Cordelia, and the continued looming from Gunn, Lindsey pushed himself up off the sofa and walked carefully out the front door.

That hadn't gone quite the way he'd expected. It was time to go back to his original plan. Find himself a bolt hole, sleep the day through, then head over to Caritas and figure out what the hell to do next.

Still operating on autopilot, he was surprised to find himself outside the club instead of pulled up in front of a motel. Too damned tired and confused to think any more, he pulled his aching body from the cab of the truck and half-walked, half-staggered to the private entrance. It wouldn't be the first time Lorne had taken in this particular stray; just the first time in a very long time.

He leaned against the doorbell and ended up sagging, not realizing the bell was shrieking endlessly inside. The door was pulled open abruptly, and Lorne stood there, ablaze with indignation. "I said I'm coming!" The words died and he stared down at Lindsey, who'd tumbled through the door when it was opened and landed against his chest. Lorne opened his arms automatically and caught him. "Sugar, what happened to you?"

Lindsey didn't have to tell him. Lorne read all the sorry details without having to hear the words. "Oh, honey. That's not good. For anyone concerned." Lindsey barely heard him. He was close to being asleep on his feet. "Come on inside, babycakes. Sleep first, questions after."

It sounded good to Lindsey. Gentle hands pulled him to a stop, carefully unwound the torn clothing from his body and tumbled him gently onto a bed that felt like it was an acre across. A body giving off enough heat to qualify as a furnace wrapped itself around him, and Lindsey burrowed into the warmth. Sleep came quickly, but not easily.

He was onstage at Caritas, but the tables were empty. Lorne stood at the side of the stage, his back to Lindsey, his head down, arms hanging at his sides. Rejection radiated from him. Lindsey reached a hand out toward him, but let it fall. Lorne didn't notice.

Picking up the guitar lying next to the microphone, he tried to pick out a melody, but the strings were broken. Closing his eyes, he tried to sing, but he couldn't remember the lyrics. Words came out, but they were gibberish.

Mocking applause came from the bar, and he looked up to see Angel, leaning against the counter, raising a glass of blood to him. Laughing. Snarling. Draining the glass, ignoring the rivulets of blood that leaked out the corners of his mouth, catching a fang on the rim of the glass then throwing it with sudden rage at the bottles behind the bar.

Throughout, Lindsey tried to sing. Tried to find his voice, his words, his melody. All he could find was tears, but wasn't that what Angel wanted? Lindsey dropped the guitar and clutched the microphone stand with both hands, staring desperately at Angel.

"I'm trying," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm stronger than you think, and I can do it. I can find my life, and I can live it, and I can be free. You can be free with me. I've changed. You know me. You know me now, and you know who I can be, if you go there with me."

Angel laughed harder, then turned and walked out of the club.

Lindsey had never felt more stupid in his life. Why offer? Angel didn't want him. He shouldn't want Angel.

But he did.

_Broken In_

_I started out clean but I'm jaded_

As usual when dealing with the wounded, Lorne didn't ask. He waited and made himself available without pushing. Made it crystal clear there was an understanding ear if and when Lindsey needed it. But he didn't push, because he must have known if he had Lindsey would have broken.

Lindsey spent the day haunting the back of the bar, quietly resisting whisky and trying not to think. His dream invaded his waking mind regardless of his efforts, and he must have been broadcasting loud enough to give Lorne a headache, because by the time the doors opened, the Host simply handed him a guitar and pointed at the stage. Lindsey stared at the six-string, stared back at Lorne, then plodded slowly up to the stool in the spotlight. He settled on the edge gingerly. A few people cheered. He didn't hear them.

He couldn't remember any of his own lyrics, so he fell back on others, hiding behind Rob Thomas and trying not to feel the words move through him. He was no better at that than at not thinking. "If I fall along the way, pick me up and dust me off. If I get too tired to make it, be my breath so I can walk."

He'd been picking himself up since he was a kid. He was tired. More tired than he'd ever been, and no end in sight. He'd thought he'd made the right choice coming back. Thought he'd _have_ a chance, this time, having walked away from the wrong choices and meant it.

So much for chances. He kept making the same mistake all over again.

Three quarters of the way through 'Bent,' every word coming from his soul, he knew Angel had entered the club. He didn't have to look; all the little hairs on his arms rose up and shivered, and he knew.

Ignoring the vampire was harder than ignoring the rest of the audience, but he did his damnedest. Staring down at his hand moving on the strings, he sang, "Started out clean but I'm jaded, just phoning it in. Just breaking the skin." The bite on his throat ached at the words. He didn't know if he was singing about himself, or about Angel, or if they'd somehow become interchangeable in his tangled thoughts. They'd been entangled for months in his heart. Stood to reason his mind would follow.

The song was finished before he was ready, but he didn't have anything else to sing. He felt empty : heart, mind and body. He hadn't had much to give to begin with, and what he'd had had been taken. He didn't think he had any fight left in him.

Nodding curtly at the applause, hoping vaguely it would be taken as shyness but not really caring if they thought he was an arrogant son of a bitch, he walked off the stage. Handing the guitar to Lorne, he put a finger up against the ruby red lips before they could speak. The bright red eyes staring down at him were sadder than they should be.

"S'okay," he tried to reassure his friend. It was a lie and he knew it coming out, but he'd comforted with lies for so long he didn't know how to stop. He knew by the expression on Lorne's face that the effort was understood even if it wasn't believed. That was as it should be.

Angel stepped forward from the bar and opened his mouth. Lindsey turned on his heel and walked swiftly up the stairs. He wasn't quite running but he was definitely retreating.

Of course, this was Angel. Couldn't just leave it at that.

_shouldn't be so complicated_

"Lindsey."

Angel's voice was soft, a little preemptory, and right behind him. Lindsey walked a little faster, wincing at the pain in his lower back. "Go 'way."

"We have to talk." The softness had disappeared and the normal haughty command was back. This time, Lindsey didn't find it sexy, just irritating.

"Fuck off."

"If we're lucky -- " Angel started, too damned much laughter in his voice. Lindsey barely succeeded in fighting back the urge to turn and swing at him. Fighting wouldn't do any good; it had always been a substitute for intimacy between them, anyway, and he wasn't in the mood for anything intimate with Angel.

"Go back to hell where you belong," he barked, finally, finally reaching his truck. He swung into the driver's seat in one fast move, ignoring the way his aching muscles complained, and revved the engine. He peeled away from the curb, instinctively looking in the rearview mirror. Shaking his head, knowing he couldn't see the vampire in the mirror, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Nearly ran his truck into the curb.

Angel was sitting beside him.

Lindsey swung the wheel over violently, coming to a stop with a thump, barely out of traffic. One horn briefly sounded, but it was Los Angeles; they were used to shitty driving and nobody protested much. He cut the engine and sat there, caught between fuming and running away so he could cry in peace.

No damned wonder the myths had started about vampires being able to fly, as fast as the fuckers could move. He stared at his hands, still wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. He really wanted to hit Angel.

Maybe.

Didn't he?

"Can we talk?"  
The question sounded more plaintive than demanding, now. Lindsey tore his gaze away from his fists and shot Angel a glare. The damned smirk was still there, and it was like salt on an open cut.

"Get the fuck out of my truck."

"Hey, that rhymes!"

Humans could move pretty fast when adrenaline surged, too. Lindsey's right arm flew out, fist cracking Angel across the chops before he could duck. Angel's hand wrapped around his wrist on the rebound. He didn't let go, but he didn't hold on hard enough to hurt, either, simply trapped Lindsey there. Held him until Lindsey finally gave in and looked at him.

"What do you want?"

For once, the mocking light was absent from the deep brown eyes. And he'd knocked the damned smirk off, too.

"I'm sorry."

Took the wind right out of his sails. Not only was Angel apologizing, he looked like he meant it. Not the superficial 'sorries' he got when Angel was pounding him to a pulp shortly before pulverizing his false hand. No, this one came from someplace deeper, and this time, Lindsey believed it.

"Why?" he asked quietly. Not just why Angel was sorry, but why all of it? Angel heard all the questions he asked and for once he actually answered.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. Any more, I seldom mean to hurt the people I care about, but I do it anyway." He'd turned back away from Lindsey and was staring out the windshield as he spoke.

Lindsey felt his throat tighten. Since when had Angel cared about him?

"Your timing sucked," Angel continued. His fingers had begun to draw little circles on the skin along the inside of Lindsey's wrist. The tiny caress was distracting, but Lindsey knew this was important, so he fought to keep his attention on the words, not the touch. "Buffy's dead."

Not completely unexpected, given the amount of pain Angel had been showing. The amount he'd inflicted when Lindsey had invited him in.

"What happened?" he asked, still quietly, when Angel gave no sign of going on.

"Saving the world, again. Only this time the world wanted everything, and she gave it."

Without thinking about it, Lindsey's hand curled around, and Angel's fingers slipped down, and they were holding onto one another. Lindsey squeezed gently.

"I'm sorry. I know you loved her."

"Like I've never loved, and never will love, anyone else ever again," Angel whispered. Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. Looking back at Lindsey, he shrugged slightly. "But that wasn't your fault, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"Why did you?" It wasn't like he'd been fighting. It had all been on offer. All of it.

"You tried to kiss me."

Memory flashed, his arm stretching around Angel's neck, moving to lay a kiss on his mouth, movement aborted by an unexpected slap across the face. "Yeah."

"It was too close. Her memory. Couldn't let you touch me like that."

Angel sounded strangled now, but he held Lindsey's look. He reached out with his free hand, turning to face Lindsey on the seat as he did, and touched the bruise along the side of Lindsey's mouth tenderly with a fingertip. Lindsey shut his eyes, so didn't see Angel lean forward and replace his hand with his lips. He would have flinched, but the mouth covering his froze him in place.

Even as it melted his bones.

It was a long time before Angel let him free, and Lindsey was gasping for air. His lips and tongue tingled, and his jaw was a little sore. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared at Angel, feeling a little dazed. "What was that for?"

"Apology," Angel told him. Lindsey tried to withdraw, but Angel caught the nape of his neck and held him in place. "Invitation."

Lindsey gave in to the gentle insistence of the hand at his neck and tilted his head, taking Angel's mouth as thoroughly as his had been taken. By the time the second kiss ended, the air temperature in the truck cabin had risen a good five degrees and his jeans were uncomfortably tight.

"Where?" he gasped out.

"My place?" Angel asked, dropping kisses along his cheekbone, then down along the side of his neck, stopping to lick lightly at the bite from the previous night. Lindsey shivered.

"Not if you're gonna knock me around again." He tried to be forceful, but it was difficult to sound tough when he was breathless. Angel nodded anyway.

"No knocking. A little manhandling, yeah, but no knocking."

Lindsey opened his eyes again. The smirk was back, but it was softer somehow, and he believed the assurance. Angel really did need him, as much as Lindsey needed Angel. They had some talking to do; no way was Angel going to get away with implying he cared about Lindsey and not explain himself, and he did need to talk to somebody about the Slayer. Lindsey was a good listener. Among other things.

Breaking away reluctantly, he cranked the engine and headed in the direction of the hotel. They'd talk, and they'd listen ... and they'd touch. One way or another, they'd make it through. They were different pieces to the same puzzle, and they fit together. Even if it did take a little bending.

On both sides.

_just touch me and then, just touch me again_

_end_


End file.
